Song of the Turtle Dove
by CleverDucky
Summary: Alex Mercer has spent the last year as a therapist for a man convicted of murder. His patient, Desmond Miles, has no memory of what he has done. When Desmond's previous therapist returns after months spent abroad, Alex slowly begins to learn what treachery awaits within every man, and to what lengths one person will go to get what they want. M/M
1. With Madness and Obsession

Song of the Turtledove

"_But sometimes illumination comes to our rescue at the very moment when all seems lost; we have knocked at every door and they open on nothing until, at last, we stumble unconsciously against the only one through which we can enter the kingdom we have sought in vain a hundred years - and it opens." _– Marcel Proust

**With Madness and Obsession**

_-i-_

"Perhaps you can find other sources to assuage that consuming guilt you are feeling. Are you particularly religious, Desmond?"

A smirk plays on a damaged mouth. A thin cut slices through what would otherwise be full, inviting lips; a mouth made for happiness, creased with laugh lines. "Are you asking if I believe in God, Dr. Mercer?" Now it is a mouth of cruel words and bitter resentment. Of condescending smiles and twisted half-truths.

"If God is the spiritual guidance you choose to believe in, then yes, I am."

"God is dead."

Alex blinks, taken aback by the emptiness with which the statement is verbalized. And it is a statement. A verifiable truth, a personal reality. Almost a punch in the face with such an abrupt deliverance. Desmond Miles stares at him with the confidence and acceptance of someone who has spoken undeniable truth. The sky is blue. The grass is green. God is dead.

"God is dead," he says again. "God remains dead. And we have killed him. Yet his shadow still looms." Alex tilts his head curiously, enraptured, as his patient continues quoting a now-familiar passage with barely any inflection of emotion at all. "How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us?" Desmond's eyes are blank and distant, as if he is seeing something play out in his head that he doesn't wish to share. Alex wants to drag those hidden secrets into the light. "What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?"

"Do you think you're a god, Desmond?" Alex shoots back, grabbing onto the last stanza of Nietzsche's passage with a conviction borne from months of sessions such as this. Round and round they go, stuck within this never ending loop of accusations and denial despite the convicting evidence damning any chance of going free. Many nights Alex has lain awake wondering if it's even worth it anymore, if working Desmond's case has done nothing but bleed him dry and put false hope within its supporters –if there are any, that is. "Is that why you killed Lucy?"

His patient goes unnaturally still, watching with flinty, wretched eyes. Eventually he grits out a rough "No", as if the word is some filthy offense lying on his tongue. Alex sighs and picks up his pen, rolling it methodically between his thumb and pointer finger.

"No what? No you don't think you are a god? Or no that isn't why you killed Lucy?"

Desmond gets even more agitated, bouncing his foot under the table and wringing the hem of his shirt in jerky fingers. He doesn't answer and Alex sets his pen back down. He leans forward, trying to connect with Desmond on a more friendly level (somewhat difficult for him, but with Desmond he's always at least made an effort). "Talk to me, Desmond," he says, quietly. "What are you thinking right now?"

"I don't remember."

Of course. Alex hadn't expected anything different.

"I don't remember," Desmond says again. His shoulders are hunched and trembling, his voice cracking as he begins to yell. "I don't remember! _I don't remember!"_

Alex signals for the orderlies and sits back in his chair as they storm into the room and subdue his patient. Weary, he begins packing his things and can only watch as the burly nurses give Desmond a mild sedative, supporting his sudden sagging weight between them.

Distant, confused eyes roll until they catch his own. Their gazes lock and Desmond's depthless eyes demand absolution, plead for some unnamable phenomenon. Alex has never been able to decipher just what, exactly, the man is begging him for. Once, he had thought it was a cry for help and he had done everything within his power to answer that request. But as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks into months, Alex began to suspect that what he saw wasn't Desmond imploring for some kind of relief. Sometimes Alex suspects the man doesn't care for help at all.

But there is a fear inside Desmond that Alex can almost see in the air between them during these moments. It's there during each of their sessions. It is present in the short, quick breaths that fall from trembling lips; in the sweat that dampens his forehead and races the pulse in his neck; it's there every time Desmond looks at Alex, _in _Alex, and verbally pushes him away with words of steel and thorn.

Alex knows it is there, he just wishes he could also comprehend what it is that has Desmond so utterly afraid.

_-i-_

Alex leaves the hospital and starts the drive back into the city where his office is. The weatherman forecasts severe thunderstorms and a tornado warning for the next county over. The rain has already begun by the time he gets onto the freeway, loud and oppressive from outside the quiet protection of the car. It's the kind of shower that soaks you within seconds of being caught out in it – unnaturally heavy and coming down in thick sheets of ice-cold water, drenching everything with the threat of a flash flood. Miserable.

He props an elbow on the door and chews thoughtfully on the pad of his thumb as traffic slows accordingly, everyone seemingly conscious of how simple it would be to hydroplane and roll into the deep ditches banking the road. At a standstill, he switches off the radio while fiddling with the defrost and reaches for his cellphone. His secretary will most likely be at lunch but he calls and leaves her a message anyway.

"Let my one o'clock know I'll be a little late. I'm caught in the rain."

Curt. Maybe a little cold. He knows she won't mind though. After all this time working beside Alex, Rebecca has learned that his social skills, or lack thereof, is just how he operates. Perhaps becoming a therapist hadn't been the best of choices, all things considered, but it had been what he wanted and he is undeniably good at what he does. No one can argue that.

Well, to be fair, a lot of people are doing just that lately and he can't really blame them. Not when he's been questioning himself, his skills and his overall performance more often than not this past year, too. And as much as he prefers not to point fingers, he'd be lying if he didn't admit that all of it is because of one Desmond Miles.

As the traffic inches forward, Alex finds himself going back over the incident that had occurred over eleven months ago and landed Desmond in his care. The victim, Lucy Stillman, had been stabbed once in the stomach by a kitchen knife one evening after work. The reports said Desmond had been waiting inside for her, that they had been living together for the better part of three weeks by that point.

Allegedly, he had no motive. Friends and family claim they were a happy couple that rarely fought. It came as quite a shock that Desmond would do something so terrible to the one person he told others he couldn't imagine a life without. But he had stabbed her and left her unconscious and bleeding out in the dining room as he took, of all things, a nap on the couch.

Desmond had been the one to call the police, hysterical and inconsolable as he told them his girlfriend had been attacked, wasn't moving, and, _help me, oh God, I think she's dead_. His prints were all over the body and the knife. He had walked through a puddle of her blood on his way to the couch and left a trail of bright red footprints across the hardwood floor and cream-colored carpet. There was no mistaking that he had done it. The only question was _why _had he done it.

A series of angry car horns tears Alex from his thoughts and he quickly presses down on the accelerator. The standstill has long since been broken while he remained idling in the middle of the road, a line of pissed off drivers at his back. He scowls at his furiously working windshield wipers as he catches up with traffic and takes the exit into the city.

It takes the better part of an hour to get back to the office and the rain seems to only get worse by then. Thunder is rumbling like a hungry dog above Alex's head as he ducks out of the parking lot and crosses the busy streets of Manhattan to reach his building. He has always been somewhat proud of its location; not so far in the heart of the city that it gets unbearably loud and distracting, and yet not so far away that it is inconvenient to either him or his patients.

There is also a quaint little café on the next block that he frequents because of their habit to serve pumpkin spice coffee year-round instead of only during the appropriate season like most places do. And because the staff aren't too intrusive. They know to leave him alone, something that was learned very quickly after the first few times he took lunch there and caused one of the baristas to cry when she had come to his table to ask if he was enjoying himself more than just the once. He hasn't seen her since that day and he's almost positive she's quit. He doesn't feel guilty.

"Hey, you're back." Rebecca is waiting in the lobby when he fast-walks in, soaked to the bone despite the short distance from the parking lot. She rests her hip against the security desk and raises an eyebrow at his sodden appearance. He gives her a warning look, knowing she is seconds away from making some comment that will only sour his mood even more.

She smirks and annoyingly pops her gum. "You're one o'clock is waiting for you already. I sent him in since you were taking your sweet time."

"Clearly," he mutters, trying not to take too-large steps and cause his pants to chafe uncomfortably. "How long as he been waiting?"

"About an hour. It's two-thirty, Alex."

"Shit."

"How's Desmond doing?"

Alex doesn't answer at first, oddly protective of his estranged patient. Rebecca isn't asking about the man's medical standing and they both know it. Since Alex has taken on Desmond's case, more often than not his secretary has been the one to schedule their sessions, talk to Desmond's lawyer and, sometimes, Desmond himself, to confirm the meetings via phone or face-to-face. After a while, they managed to strike up a friendship of some kind.

"He's fine," he says evenly, which means no change. She nods, disappointed, and leaves it at that. It's no secret that Miles is a touchy field for Alex and has been for some time.

They quickly make their way to the elevator together and Alex spends a considerable amount of time during the brief trip up sixteen flights picking his wet clothes away from his skin and letting them air dry. It's useless of course since he's dripping all over the place, and only seems to amuse Rebecca who doesn't even try to hide the fact that she is laughing at him. His dark glowers just make it worse.

"You look like a pissed off kitten," she teases, stepping out in front of him when the doors ding open. He ignores her and walks through the empty waiting room to his door. Saturdays are always the least busy since nobody wants to spend their weekend talking to a therapist about their feelings when there are clubs to attend, new faces to fuck and a plethora of drinks to funnel down eager throats. Better to wait and schedule a day during the week to skip a few hours of work. Lazy, but oh-so predictable.

Alex runs a hand rapidly back and forth through his hair in an attempt to dry it instead of having it plastered against his skull. "Don't you have a job to do?" He shoots Rebecca an expectant look over his shoulder and gestures at her desk, flicking water from his fingers in the process. "It's what you're paid for, isn't it?"

He gets a lazy shrug in response as she saunters around the corner and plops into her seat, most likely to play some mindless computer game instead of actual _work. _"Whatever, boss. Go talk about your feelings while I blow up some zombitches."

Mindless computer game it is, then. Alex snorts and pushes open the door to his private office, shedding his wet coat and unbuttoning his shirt as he does. Waiting on the couch is his one o'clock appointment, a familiar yet faceless man who always spends their sessions talking about his precious pet cats. Alex offers a quick and insincere apology for being late and takes a moment to change out of his wet clothes in the adjoining bathroom.

When he comes out again, more comfortable in the pair of jeans and clean shirt he'd kept in his desk for the nights he is forced to spend in the office working overtime than going home, the man has already pulled out his wallet with the newest pictures of his 'babies' and eagerly waits to recount Mr. Periwinkle and Mitten's latest adventure with the vacuum cleaner hose.

Alex just barely stops himself from sighing and moves to sit across from the man in a plush chair. "Shall we get started, Mr. Taggert?"

_-i-_

"I'm heading out. You need anything?"

Alex takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting off a yawn. Rebecca huffs a quiet chuckle from her place leaning into the room, her coat already on and an umbrella dangling from her hand. The rain hadn't let up at all. "No. I'll see you Monday."

"Alex?" He looks up, squinting. Rebecca is giving him an uncertain look, as if she can't decide whether to laugh at him or feel sorry for him. She cuts him off before he can formulate an inquiry as to why she feels the need to look at him like he just said something inherently stupid. "Monday is Veteran's day. We're going to be closed. Remember?"

"Oh," He blinks and shrugs. "Right. Then I'll see you Tuesday." Without another glance, he turns back to the scattered papers on his desk and sets about trying to get some organization going. Rebecca clomps into his space with her loud boots and pokes him in the shoulder with her umbrella. "_What?_"

"Listen McGrumpy Gills, I know you're a total workaholic and all, and normally I'd appreciate that in a man since most of you idiots can't commit to anything for longer than the few scant minutes it takes for someone to make you a sandwich, but, really." She shakes her head and even looks a bit concerned. Which is a little strange coming from her and makes Alex uncomfortable. "Can you just take these next couple of days to relax? You know, that weird thing where people don't work and actually sleep more than three hours?"

"I sleep more than three hours," he protests, dodging the swing of her umbrella.

"Three-and-a-half! Alex, I'm serious. You've been driving yourself into the ground lately and it's making me go nuts. Before long you're going to have to sit there and listen to me rave about issues while I pay you by the hour. Do _not _make me schedule myself a session with you. You know I'll do it just for spite."

Alex tries to mask the stricken look he knows he's wearing at the very thought of having to spend even more time with Rebecca. By the sardonic smile she flashes him, he knows he's doing a terrible job of hiding it.

"Exactly," she sing-songs, turning on her heel for the door. "So take my advice and sleep. You're starting to look like a raccoon with those bruises around your eyes."

"Good_night_, Rebecca."

Again, he turns back to his work and loses himself in the notes scrawled in his own cramped handwriting. He puts his glasses back on and reaches for some forms that are long overdue for perusal and, in some cases, signatures. A few important details on the papers need to be highlighted and as he's clicking a pen to underline the necessary lines, Rebecca clears her throat and startles a jagged red line across the page. He thought she'd already left and gone home.

"What is it now?" he asks, exasperated and little annoyed. He most certainly does not pout at the ruined document. _Damn._

Rebecca purses her lips into a thin line and mutters, "I'm serious, okay? You're starting to worry me." She crosses her arms and levels him with a stubborn glare, something she'd picked up from himself within the first month of working at the office. "Desmond will still be there Tuesday, so can you just not? Forget about him for two days, Alex. Just two." She sighs and adds quietly, "You're letting this thing consume you."

He almost brushes her worries off, tells her to stop nagging and go home already, but he doesn't. He's cold, but he's not that cold. She's just concerned, and as much as he wishes she wouldn't be, he can understand why. Things just haven't been the same since last year.

Instead, he breathes out heavily through his nose and gives her a tight nod. "Tuesday, Rebecca. Be ready to work."

The corner of her mouth twists up into that familiar teasing smile. He can still see the doubt shining in her eyes like a too-bright beacon since he didn't exactly agree to her terms, but she's convincing herself that maybe he did in his own way and that's good enough for her. When she finally does leave, he spends a few minutes staring at the empty space she left behind, wondering when she had become so invested with his personal affairs.

It used to be that Alex kept everyone at a distance, refusing anyone save for his sister Dana to venture within his personal bubble. It's how he managed to not take his work home with him, how he kept his psych separate from his patients' numerous issues. One simply doesn't get too attached, it's dangerous. An unstable therapist is nothing but a liability for someone already suffering and makes things ten times worse on both ends. Professionalism is a _must _in this field.

Lately, however, those lines have become blurred. Alex has never made personal calls to patients before, never visited them, never tried _befriending _anyone since it would only complicate the professional relationship between doctor and patient. He had firmly believed he was there to do his job and nothing more. Help people and move on. The end. Only things aren't so simple anymore, are they?

He's beginning to see why Rebecca is uneasy with his behavior as of late and trying, for the first time since she started working for him, to step in and intervene despite knowing his preference for the world to simply let him alone. He's nearly destroyed all of the personal boundaries and rules he's ever made for himself during his career.

Rubbing his bottom lip thoughtfully, Alex glances down and around his desk at the mess of paperwork, and winces. Rebecca worries he's becoming too close with his work, letting it 'consume him' as she so eloquently put it. Even Dana has brought the subject up a number of times when they happen to be together. She knows nothing about who Desmond even is or what happened, only that Alex has been given a patient that did something very, very bad and has been found guilty of the crime.

But she still recognizes the exhaustion in him. She still sees how much he has withdrawn from everything and everyone around him, his behavior becoming somewhat sociopathic in his drive to fix what is broken. "It's like you're a teenager again," she had told him, effectively reminding him of the most isolated and worst moments of his life. "And you don't even care."

As he scans the documents (reports, statements and medical records all pertaining to _one _person), however, he begins to wonder if perhaps saying he has let himself be consumed by the case isn't really the most accurate way of putting it. Obsessed, maybe.

Completely and totally obsessed with, not the case itself, exactly, but Desmond Miles himself.

* * *

**A/N: **I did a thing. Cross-posting this to AO3 where pictures will be included for those interested. Name on there is SonOfALich. There is also a better summary and list of pairings/characters and just generally a better read.

Pertaining to the story, I don't know how regular the updates will be, but this is the only thing I'm currently working on so with the right motivation I think it shall be done quickly. Hopefully. _Maybe. _Also, pay attention to the rating please. This is an Alex/Desmond fic and the rating will change when things get hot and heavy. I don't want people's eyes bleeding and, like, brain 'splosions going on. That'd be bad.


	2. The Sky Splits Asunder

Song of the Turtle Dove

**The Sky Splits Asunder**

_-i-_

Sunday morning Alex wakes and dresses in a pair of track pants and an old threadbare Columbia t-shirt. It had been well past midnight when he'd finally made it home, deciding last minute to follow Rebecca's advice and try and get some sleep. He'd managed a solid five hours.

At the desk shoved into the cramped corner of the bedroom, his laptop and the files of paperwork beg for his attention. He ignores the call for now and instead goes to the kitchen for coffee. Pariah is waiting expectantly by the pantry door when Alex shuffles in. The mangy wolfhound woofs once and raises a paw in the air, demanding his own breakfast.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Alex says around a jaw-popping yawn, and opens the pantry to get a large scoop of dog food. Pariah sneezes and wags his stringy tail as he moves out of the way, choosing instead to stand at his bowl by the kitchen entry. He starts wolfing down the food before Alex even finishes pouring it in, oblivious when a bit of water is tipped in to soften it for his aging teeth.

Alex rolls his eyes and pats the gentle giant on the head as he passes by to the Keurig machine, placing a chipped blue mug in and flicking it on. Pariah had been a rescue from the shelter some few months back. Alex can't really think of an excuse for taking the dog home, only that he felt he needed some kind of distraction and Dana had suggested a cat or pet fish for company. He had gone in looking for a quiet companion and had come out with a shabby, overly-grown Irish Wolfhound that looks more like one of those shoddy old shag rugs from the seventies than any breed of dog.

Hence the name Pariah. The beast is really nothing pleasant to look at and probably would have lived out the rest of his days in a concrete cell had Alex not picked his ugly face from the mass of other dogs. He seems to naturally turn people away, and Alex had liked that about him immediately. They are very much alike in that regard.

The machine beeps and Alex gratefully reaches for his steaming mug, resting his lips against the rim and letting the heat and scent warm his face to a pleasant morning flush. Sipping carefully, he pads back into the living room and eases down into the couch cushions. The TV is already on, as it always is, and Alex digs around for the remote to change the channel to the news.

The weatherman predicts scattered thunderstorms throughout the day. A flash flood warning is issued from Poughkeepsie all the way up to Kingston. Alex chews his bottom lip and narrows his eyes at the weather patterns flowing over the screen. It is unusual for mid-November, but not entirely unheard of. The summer had been uncommonly mild and seems to be just now heading into hurricane season. Still, Alex prefers not to be battling weather better fit for Dorothy and her Kansas home while driving to work.

The weather report finished, the news anchors come back on and start dishing out updates for the most recent stories; chairman retiring from senate in the next year, gay activists still celebrating their latest victory, president to pass through local towns and visit hurricane victims, murder trial finally coming to a close.

Surprisingly, after a while Alex feels himself start to dose off. It has been a long time since he's relaxed like this, since he's allowed himself to enjoy a bit of downtime rather than throwing himself into his work. Rebecca would be proud, he muses as he stretches an arm out and sits his mug down on the side table. He's almost tempted to call and tell her that he is doing just as she said.

But then he realizes how stupid that sounds and leans back into the couch, letting his eyes slide shut just as Pariah hops up and claims the rest of the couch for himself (which is no small feat considering the damn dog is well over a hundred-thirty pounds and nearly seven foot tall when standing on his hind legs, diminishing the couch to appear as if it were made for children instead of adults).

He's just beginning to sink into that land of fog that lies somewhere between being awake and asleep, dreaming without really dreaming since he's still aware of Robin Meade chattering away on his TV and of Pariah's canine snores raking along his nerves, but dreaming enough to see an ocean's waves rolling and breaking on hot sand as seagulls cry overhead behind his eyelids, when the doorbell rings and shatters the beautiful image like a rock striking glass.

Alex's eyes snap open as the tones of the bell fade off and go quiet, only to chime persistently again right after. Bemused, he shrugs off sleep's caressing fingers and stands. He hasn't even been awake for more than two hours, and already he finds himself seeking a nap? Either he is getting old (which is a long way off still yet), or he really does need to get more sleep before he finds himself face down on the floor in a coma.

Which is ridiculous, he chides – quickly making his way to the door as the person on the other side deems fit to start pounding with an irate fist when it takes Alex too long to answer – because he is a damn _doctor_ and he knows his body better than anyone else does, and he is certain he has, at the very least, six more days of sleeping the minimum requirement before he completely crashes.

…maybe four.

He pauses just as he's about to pull the door open and frowns at the lock. Rarer still than taking a nap when there is work to be done is for Alex to have visitors. No one knows where he lives except for Dana, since he found it somewhat necessary for her to, Rebecca (who read his tax return and found it out that way after he refused to tell her), and the bill collectors for obvious reasons.

As a rule none of his patients are ever given his home address. For personal reasons, sure, but mostly for security. After what happened with Heller a few years back, Alex isn't willing to test the waters and give someone such an opening again.

Suddenly, both the determined knocking and shrill doorbell start up together in an obnoxious cacophony loud enough to rile Pariah into a fit of indignant barks from the living room. Gritting his teeth, and bracing himself for the possibility that it _is _an upset patient come to fulfill some personal vendetta, Alex wrenches the door open with a volley of cutting threats waiting on his tongue, and nearly chokes on them.

Altair glares back at him from the otherwise silent hallway, one hand raised to continue jabbing at the doorbell and the other pressing a Blackberry to his ear. Glancing quickly down, Alex confirms that the other man had been kicking at the door rather than knocking like a normal person. Typical. From within his apartment, Alex hears his phone start to ring, only to abruptly be cut off when Altair lowers his own and ends the call.

"How – "

Altair effectively cuts him off by shouldering his way through the doorway and further into the apartment. "We need to talk. _Now._"

"I apologize, Dr. Mercer," Alex swings his head around from giving Altair's back a dirty look and raises an eyebrow at another familiar face, obviously having been blocked by Altair before. Malik is scowling and shaking his head as he too steps inside, his entire demeanor crackling with irritation. "I tried telling the idiot to wait until you were back at the office, but he wouldn't listen. The stupid _child._"

Alex frowns and just barely stops himself from going across the hall to Officer Cross' door and demand he come arrest the two lunatics invading his home. He asks, peevish, "How did you get this address?"

"Google," Altair snaps from the living room where he's ardently fighting off Pariah's excited crotch-seeking muzzle. "Now can you hurry up and get your damn horse off of me? I need to talk to you."

_-i-_

The two of them stay so long that Alex begrudgingly ends up offering them lunch and sets about reheating cold leftovers that Dana had sent home a few nights ago out of pity. It's nothing extravagant and he takes a certain amount of pleasure at watching Altair's mouth, so like his younger brother's, scar and all, twist in distaste with the first bite of spinach casserole.

Malik is more tactful about it, choosing instead to push the lump of stuff around on his plate as if he's contemplating eating it but really isn't. Alex does the same.

"This is disgusting," Altair states. "I'm finished. We should get back to the issue anyway."

Alex rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair. "By all means." A few minutes pass in awkward silence as Altair stares expectantly across the table, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm next to his plate. Finally, exasperated, Alex snaps, "What?"

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

Alex takes a prolonged moment to gather his cracking composure because, even though for the past year Altair has managed to be a bigger pain in his ass than paying taxes, Alex is a _professional _damn it. He has an image to uphold.

At Altair's side, Malik rubs his forehead to stave off a headache. He had explained to Alex that he had been dragged along against his will and, until Altair had begun talking, had no idea what any of this was even about. "I'm sure Dr. Mercer is doing all he can, Altair," he says, words clipped. "How many times do I have to remind you to be polite like you're some unruly toddler?"

Altair ignores him. "I need to know something is going to be done. This bastard has been off the grid since they locked Desmond up. Kind of convenient, don't you think?"

"Vidic's practice has extensions all over the globe. It isn't out of the ordinary that he travel," Alex says, standing and gathering the dishes just so he can keep his hands busy. "His representative explained all of that away and even provided documentation in court. It isn't against the law to do your job."

"But he was Desmond's therapist!" Altair protests.

"He used to be," Malik interjects. Alex dumps the dishes into the sink and tries not to let Malik's coming words affect him. "Dr. Mercer is his therapist now, and was when it happened. Dr. Vidic, according to the verdict, had nothing to do with what happened."

"He has to know something."

Alex turns and leans back against the counter, gripping the edges with tight fingers. Slowly, he says, "Altair, I know you want to believe that someone framed your brother, but – "

"Desmond is innocent." Altair's stubborn glare brooks no room for argument. Alex takes a deep breath and studies the linoleum beneath his bare feet.

"Desmond has a history of depression and a charge of assault on his permanent record," he shoots back. The words taste wrong in his mouth, like they are lies even though they're cold facts. He isn't blaming Desmond, not when he's as unstable as he is, but he _did_ murder Lucy Stillman. There is no getting around that.

But Alex knows what Altair means when he says his brother is innocent. The man committed a heinous crime, yet Desmond remains somehow clean. As if he didn't do it, not really. Desmond is almost childlike sometimes. As disturbing as it is fascinating, Alex has noticed that Desmond acts as if he has no common sense – that he does things without really thinking them through. Like a little boy who plays with matches.

This is where the courts had deemed him mentally unstable and shipped him off to St. Benedictine's. The fact that Desmond already had a history battling depression seemed to only push the decision even faster, spurred on by Alex's own diagnosis stating as such. Alex's reasoning back then had been Desmond's health. Lately, however, as his visits become more frequent and Desmond's behavior more peculiar, he's starting to believe he's perhaps condemned someone who never deserved it in the first place.

It's some time before anyone says anything again. The tension is thick enough in the air that even Pariah is unsettled, choosing instead to pad back into the bedroom and curl on his dog pillow than face the three men butting heads next to his food bowl. Altair, unsurprisingly, is the first to break the uncomfortable silence by again declaring his brother's innocence and demanding Alex's interference.

"You have to get him an appeal," Altair finishes, standing now and pacing back and forth between the kitchen and dining room. Malik watches him tiredly from the table.

"We've tried that already, and it was denied. There's nothing to convince anyone that Desmond isn't guilty."

"Says who?"

Alex nearly throws a ladle at Altair's head. "Says the state, Altair! Says the judicial system, says the _law._ He was given a fair trial – "

"It was _not _fair! You threw him to the damn wolves, he doesn't remember anything. How can you say he's guilty when he doesn't _remember!" _Altair is yelling now, voice hoarse and cracking with his ire. It's the most emotion Alex has ever seen him display. Until recently, he's only ever witnessed the other man's stubbornness and open disdain on a muted level, restricted to quiet seething or sharp barks.

Now, though, his anger and hurt is being voiced loud enough to probably terrify the neighbors, leaving Alex stunned. Even Malik seems taken by surprise at the sudden outburst, his gaze locked onto Altair with slightly-wider eyes.

"You were supposed to defend him. You might've kept him out of prison, but that place isn't much better!" Altair stalks across the kitchen and jabs a bruising finger into Alex's sternum. "You didn't care. All you saw was a case and you dumped him the first chance you got." Alex opens his mouth to retort, incensed, but Altair doesn't let him. "This guy, Vidic? He knows something. Desmond was never the same after he started seeing him, but he wouldn't listen to us when we talked to him about it. Now all of a sudden he's slapped with murder and Vidic hops on the first flight out of the country. It's _bullshit_."

Malik stands suddenly, causing his chair to scrape back against the floor. "Altair, enough. You can't suggest things like this without having something to back it up."

"What makes you think I don't?" Altair drops his hand from Alex but refuses to step back. He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out something Alex can't really make out at first, not until it's being shoved against his chest with a growl. It's a small orange prescription bottle. He doesn't recognize the drug.

Suddenly Malik is there, pulling Altair back and inspecting the bottle in Alex's hand. "What is it? You didn't tell me about this."

Alex eyes it suspiciously and then looks at Altair. "Well?"

"They were Desmond's. Vidic prescribed them. His name is even on the fucking label, see?" Alex does. "I haven't been able to find out anything about them. It's like they don't even exist."

Malik takes the bottle from Alex and examines the label more closely, frowning. He mumbles something and then turns to Altair with budding realization. "Desmond told you about them, didn't he? When you visited him last week. What else did he tell you? Why didn't you say anything?"

"He begged me not to. I don't even think he meant to tell me about the pills, it just kind of slipped. And then he started freaking out and saying I couldn't tell anyone, that it would ruin everything if I did." Altair seems to slump a little, looking suddenly exhausted. Malik's frown seems to soften, and then disappear completely as he sighs and hands Alex back the bottle of pills. Alex averts his eyes as the two men share a glance not meant for outsiders.

He clears his throat and straightens, edging away from the two of them to get some space. "Ruin what? What was he talking about?"

"Hell if I know, he was raving by that point. They took him away before I could ask anything else."

He shakes the pills curiously, mentally riffling through every known medication trying to place the drug in his hand. _Parvu-avis. _It rings no bells, hardly even sounds like a legitimate drug. "I don't know what this is," he says honestly. "Do you know the last time he took one?"

"He was probably taking them right up until he was arrested. I don't know for sure." Altair scrubs his hands up his face and through his hair, threading his fingers at the nape of his neck and closing his elbows over his ears. "You have to talk to Vidic, Alex. I've been calling and leaving messages for months. He never answers."

Alex doesn't say he knows that already, that he's also been calling, emailing and even going to Warren Vidic's offices downtown since the day Desmond had been read his rights trying to catch the elusive doctor and have him answer some questions. At one point the thought of booking a flight to Dubai, where he knew Vidic to be at the time, had even crossed his mind. This 'obsession' with Desmond Miles has been growing for a very, very long time.

He shuts his eyes and breathes in deeply before turning back to the other two with a grim expression. "Just because I don't know what this is doesn't mean anything. It can't change what's happened. If by some miracle pursuing this can get Desmond an appeal, though, I promise you I'll do what I can." He glares at Altair's immediate frown. "I know you don't believe me, Altair, but I do care for your brother. I don't want to see Desmond suffer any more than you do."

Maybe it's the way he says it that makes Altair look at him like that, like Alex is suddenly some puzzle he didn't expect to drop in his lap; suspicious and a little wary, sharp with something uncomfortably close to understanding.

But understanding what? His obsession?

He'd said care _for _your brother. Not care _about._

The thoughts put Alex on the defensive and he quickly distances himself, turning his face away and walking out of the kitchen to the living room. The two don't stay much longer after that. Alex assures them, in his own way, that he will do what he can, but that most of it will have to wait until after the holiday since Vidic's office will be closed. He promises to keep them updated, forces Altair to agree not to do anything on his own in case it screws up a chance for an appeal and all but shoves them out of his apartment.

He watches them from his window as they exit the building and take a left on the sidewalk, heading up 1 5th Avenue toward the city. His building is four stories high, but even from the top floor he can still see when Malik raises an arm and squeezes the back of Altair's neck in a reassuring gesture that, somehow, sends a spike of jealousy and want straight through Alex's core.

He abandons the window and throws himself back into his work.

* * *

**A/n: **Just a heads up, everything is better if you read this on Archiveofourown. I put up a picture of Alex's apartment over there for curious eyes.

I know this chapter kind of sucked, but I promise next update will be better. Don't let this chapter turn you away!


	3. Important Ghosts

Song of the Turtle Dove

**Important Ghosts**

_-i-_

Tuesday morning Alex spends a considerable amount of time on hold after requesting a conference with Dr. Warren Vidic. The secretary, a droning, boorish young woman who strikes Alex as the type who spends more time filing her nails and fixing her makeup than actually working, eventually comes back on the line to inform him that the doctor is presently not taking any calls and that Alex will have to try again later in the evening. When the office closes.

"This is important," he says tightly, fighting the urge to snap. Lashing out will only get him the opposite of what he wants. "I understand he is busy, but I have been trying to get in touch with him for some time now. This issue really can't wait any longer."

"If this is an emergency you should call the hospital? Otherwise, you'll have to call back later?"

It takes Alex a moment to realize that she is making actual statements and just has the unfortunate luck of being part of this new generation that has a habit of making everything they say into a question. He feels a headache begin to form right in the center of his forehead.

"It's about Desmond Miles. I – "

"Desmond Miles? The killer?"

"It's imperative that I speak with Dr. Vidic," he says again, swallowing the creative retorts that jump to mind. "I only need a few minutes of his time."

She sighs. When she speaks again it is evident she has lost interest in the conversation and Alex gets the distinct impression that she really is filing her nails. This is due in large part to her distracted tone and the faint sound of scritching sandpaper filtering over the line . "Like I told you? He isn't taking calls right now? You'll have to call back later?"

Alex ends the call with a bit more force than necessary before he can manage to say something he'll regret, or worse, jeopardize the chance of talking with the doctor. He cradles his head in his hands and gently rubs at his temples, wondering what his next steps should be. If it wasn't for the fact that Vidic is, in fact, an actual man, Alex would suspect him to be a ghost for all the hassle it is trying to get in touch with him. Or perhaps Vidic just chooses to evade Alex's attempts in particular on purpose.

He suspects the latter.

Rebecca finds him still hunched over his desk by the time lunch rolls around and offers to buy him a sandwich. "I know how you like that little corner café's menu. I can pick you something up on the way back."

He nods into his hands and looks up. "Thank you, I appreciate it. Are you wearing makeup?"

She touches her face self-consciously and scowls. "Maybe. So?"

"You look weird."

"Oh, shut up. I'll be back in an hour. Your three and four o'clock cancelled. They're supposed to call back and reschedule when they figure out some date and times."

"Do you have a lunch date?"

Annoyed and flustered, she crosses her arms and dangerously cocks her hip. He knows the look well enough from Dana to tread carefully or risk getting his face ripped off. "Yes. Does that come as such a shock to you? I can't date people?"

"I just thought you were more into dashing your admirer's hopes and bathing in their dejected tears than indulging their hopeless fantasies," he says eventually, relaxing as she flashes him a predatory smirk, pleased.

"He's a historian and longtime friend. We're trying to reconnect," she explains, smoothing her flashy skirt and blouse. Alex suspects her 'friend' will have a terrible case of cotton mouth and wandering eyes syndrome during their little luncheon, which is of course exactly what Rebecca is going for.

He shakes his head at her, lips quirking in a barely-there smile. "Have fun."

After she's gone, Alex spends a good chunk of time simply pacing the length his office with his hands in his pockets. Both cancelled appointments call to reschedule, which is easy seeing as most of his days are free. It's been that way for a while now, though. Sometimes it seems as if Alex has done nothing but fail since leaving Columbia.

With his afternoon free thanks to the cancelled sessions, there is no reason to remain at the office and stare at the ash blue walls when he could be doing the same in the comfort of his own home. He calls and leaves Rebecca a message saying she has the rest of the afternoon off and he'll see her tomorrow before packing his things and locking the door behind him as he leaves.

_-i-_

He really had meant to go home, but by the time Alex gets downstairs and to the car he makes the unconscious decision to take a left out of the lot instead of a right. He heads toward the I-87 North out of Manhattan toward Kingston, his thumb already punching out the hospital's number on his cell before he fully clears traffic.

One thing that he has always appreciated about St. Benedictine's hospital is that the staff never fails to be more than accommodating when Alex decides last minute to make a visit. It's a good place with good people, despite how much Altair likes to preach the opposite.

The man who answers the call is friendly and open, a polar opposite of the frigid Abstergo secretary, and recognizes Alex as soon as he gives his name. "Dr. Mercer! We weren't expecting you until later in the week. Do you want a session room for the afternoon?"

"No. Have the patients had lunch yet?"

"Yes, it's being served right now," the nurse answers slowly, curious. "What can I help you with?"

"I'd like to have lunch with Desmond if he hasn't eaten yet. No session today. Just a visit."

Alex can hear the smile in the man's voice when he speaks again, obviously pleased with this development. "Absolutely. I'll let Desmond know, he'll be so excited."

He almost snorts at the ridiculous assumption. After having Desmond dragged away during their last session, he doubts very much that his patient will be anything but thoroughly pissed the moment Alex steps through those doors. In fact, he will be shocked if Desmond doesn't spend the entire time giving him the silent treatment.

It won't be the first time.

"Thanks." He rattles off the approximate time he should arrive and hangs up, settling into the familiar buzz of traffic with the windows cracked to let in the chilly fall breeze. It's a nice change from the torrents over the weekend. There are still darkened clouds in the distance hovering with the threat of a vicious storm, but it seems as if it will pass the city by. At least, Alex hopes it will pass by.

He keeps the radio off and relaxes more during the drive than he ever managed to at home. It should be surprising, but it really isn't. When it comes to Desmond Alex is beginning to find that his reactions and impulses aren't surprising in the least. After what happened with Heller though, he really should know better.

The sudden memories dash away the relaxed, comfortable feeling like a bucket of ice water being overturned above his head. He feels suddenly nauseous. James Heller had been a decent man, despite how the media made him out to be some kind of monster. Troubled, yes, but still a polite and virtuous person that had simply been going through a rough time.

Alex could have helped him more, given some time. He just hadn't _known_. Couldn't have. The extents of James' problems were much deeper and more complex than Alex had ever realized. Perhaps had he not been so caught up in James' body and mouth moving against his own in their quiet, stolen moments, then maybe Alex would have seen the danger the man had truly been capable of. Before people got hurt.

When he arrives at the hospital they tell him that Desmond is already waiting for him in the day room. The room is pretty spacious and filled with sterile, plastic furniture that has little, if any, upholstery. There are a few board games scattered about on the tables as well as stacks of cards and numerous books. The walls are painted a soft lavender shade and left bare of decoration. The effort into making the place seem homey is unmistakable, but Alex easily sees how the tables and chairs are bolted to the floor and everything has rounded edges to prevent injury, or the potential use as a weapon.

Desmond is sitting alone and hunched over one of the circular Jupiter tables toward the far end of the room. A window is at his back and as Alex approaches him the glow of sunlight from outside hits just right to outline him in an ethereal ring of light, reminding Alex of their last conversation together regarding religious preferences. He gets the uncomfortable thought that Desmond looks like some kind of abused martyr sitting there.

His body language screams defeat. As if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders and has been for some time, and it's like he's become so used to the burden that now it's not a matter of wondering if it will ever lift, but simply succumbing to the pressure and allowing it to drown him. Not for the first time, Alex finds himself wishing he could beat back those inescapable demons just to give Desmond a moment's peace.

He doesn't realize he's stopped walking until his patient suddenly looks up, expectant and a little annoyed. It's enough to break Alex from his own thoughts and pull him to the seat across from Desmond with a mutter of apology.

"You're here early."

Alex is beyond pleased to see that he won't be receiving the silent treatment after all. "I told them what time I'd be here, didn't they let you know?"

Desmond shakes his head and leans back in his seat, putting distance between them. "No, I mean you usually come on Fridays or something. You're early."

"This isn't a session," he replies, narrowing his eyes out of habit to study the man across him. "I came to see how you were doing. The last time we talked you were very upset."

"So? I'm always upset, why was that time any different?"

"I guess it wasn't."

Desmond rolls his eyes. A nurse comes up then holding two styrofoam trays of food. She sets them carefully on the table between them with a bright smile. "I thought you two would like to enjoy eating here where it's private instead of in the cafeteria."

Alex nods his thanks, mildly surprised when Desmond verbalizes it instead of ignoring her as he usually does the staff, and even compliments her haircut. "A new friend?" he asks as she walks away, trying to downplay his curiosity.

Desmond snorts and, even more surprising, grins a little bit. Alex raises an eyebrow in question. "Kind of," he says, shrugging. "Last time Ezio was here the two of them hit it off. From what she's told me, he's tripping all over himself trying to get her out on a date."

"I see." Alex isn't surprised in the least to hear that the notorious playboy of Desmond's family is trying to hook up with some of the staff. What is surprising, however, is how it took Ezio this long to try it. "Your brother seems to have gotten over his last break up pretty well."

Desmond makes a noncommittal grunt as he shovels in a mouthful of green beans. "That's just how Ezio is," he mutters around his food.

Indeed, Alex thinks. Over the past few months Alex has had the chance to get to know each and every one of the members in Desmond's extended family. William Miles and his wife had been active members and spokespeople for licensed international adoption agencies such as Children's Hope International and FTIA when alive.

The foster home they ran, more a modern-day castle than anything else, had attracted the public's attention more than once because of the many charity events that took place there. On top of that, Desmond's mother had also been really big in counseling, offering services to families who were considering adoption of children both stateside and overseas. Desmond and his older brothers had grown up within a wealthy household, wanting for nothing along with dozens of other children they considered family who passed through the estate's walls.

It was somewhat of a mixed blessing that when William died – his gentle wife already having fallen victim to breast cancer and passing away when Desmond was eight – most of the children were of age and didn't have to suffer the process of being bounced from home to home. Only Desmond, fifteen and still a dependent when his father had been killed in a fatal car crash, was forced to move from the family's estate and into a small, cramped loft with Altair, the eldest, who had been struggling through college and working two jobs at the time.

All of this Alex learned from Desmond's record and various statements from the Miles clan as well as Desmond himself over the course of the past year. The man's childhood was colorful, if not eventful, and he finds it curious that someone can be so humble after spending the better part of their life fighting for their parents' attention among a number of other children.

Altair deals with intense bouts of aggression and trust issues, Ezio seeks love in every person's bed he happens to trip himself into, and then there's Desmond who's locked up in a mental hospital for the murder of the woman he planned to marry, scared and confused with an unreliable memory and such sad, sad eyes.

_-i-_

They don't talk much anymore aside from the occasional odd comment until after they have tossed their trays and wandered back to Desmond's room. The room is split in half, both sides holding a single twin bed, night stand, chest of drawers and a desk respectively. One bed is draped with a powder blue throw blanket and the other a dark, crimson red that is tangled up in a frenzied, disastrous bundle atop the mattress. Again, all of the furniture is bolted down and Titan – a familiar brand that specializes in behavioral healthcare furniture.

Having never ventured into Desmond's room, Alex hangs back in the doorway and questions his morals. He is supposed to keep this relationship professional. He's supposed to always keep himself on the other side of that invisible line, the one that separates his work from his personal life. He shouldn't have come.

Alex is about to say his goodbyes and back out, leave before the strange temptation that brought him here in the first place convinces him to go even further, when Desmond looks at him with those impossible eyes; dark and fearful and burning with the unanswered questions that his very mind keeps locked away, hopelessly desperate for some kind of relief. He stares out from the cages of his eyelashes like a cornered animal. They are James Heller's eyes.

Alex breathes in sharply, quiet, and moves into the bedroom to sit in Desmond's desk chair, facing the bed. He can't stop staring and he knows he is making Desmond uncomfortable, but he doesn't look away. Alex has to stay. He has to help. He refuses to let Desmond end up in a bathtub kissing the cold metal mouth of a shotgun. Not again. Not ever again.

"Where's your roommate?" he asks at length, settling into the plastic seat.

Desmond finally breaks the intense gaze and looks across to the mess of red blankets. "Treatment still, probably. He had a rough night."

"What's his name?"'

"Clay."

Alex nods, grasping at straws. He wants to keep this mindless chatter. It feels so normal, and that frightening look in Desmond's eyes is beginning to fade. "Do you like Clay?"

"He's okay," Desmond says, frowning. "A little weird, but he's alright."

"Are you friends?"

Finally, the questions seem to bother Desmond and he gives Alex a sharp, calculating look. "Why are you here, Alex?"

When had he began allowing a patient to call him by his first name? When had they become so familiar that Alex let that slide? It bugs him that he can't remember, that he never even noticed the change. He shrugs a shoulder and leans further back in the chair. "I told you, I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Bullshit, you've been watching me like a hawk since you got here. If this is a friendly visit, stop looking at me like you expect me to freak out any second."

"I'm not expecting you to freak out."

"Whatever." Desmond stands from his bed and walks over to his chest of drawers, digging around in the top one for an old dog-eared book. The cover is so frayed and weathered Alex can't make out the title. "You talked to Altair, didn't you?"

"Why do you think I talked to Altair, Desmond?"

Alex gets a flat, very unimpressed look in return. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Answering my question with a question. It's annoying. If you're going to act like my friend then at least try faking a little harder." He flips the book open to a page seemingly at random and tries to appear as if he's not interested in the conversation anymore. Alex sees right through the façade. Desmond is tense, aware of everything that his happening within the room – and possibly out of it as well.

"I'm not faking. I'll try to tamp down the medically inclined side," Alex says. Desmond snorts. "What?"

"Don't hurt yourself."

Despite everything, Alex huffs a quiet chuckle as Desmond grins crookedly behind his book. The man is unnaturally still, Alex notices. Everything about him practically screams his discomfort and he looks so out of place among the sterilized furniture that it's almost an eyesore. He finds himself wondering what kind of man Desmond used to be before this entire mess. Did he laugh often? Did he joke around and have many friends? Was he a sports fan or, like now, was he more inclined to read novels than participate in anything remotely social?

Alex knows the things that make Desmond tick, knows all of his issues and personal fears and yet he finds that he knows nothing about _Desmond. _Not really. What are his favorite foods? Is he a cat person? What's his favorite color? Even more unsettling than not knowing any of these frivolous details is the mere fact that he _wants _to.

"Are you sleeping better?" Alex asks, suddenly. Wondering those things will only make those unnamed desires hidden inside rear their ugly heads even more.

"Hard to sleep when Clay screams half the night." Desmond wanders back to his bed, sitting down on the corner closest to Alex. There is only a few feet's distance between them now and he becomes increasingly aware of the warmth emanating from his patient.

"I could talk to your doctor and get you moved to another room."

"Alex, the entire floor screams at night. That's why they're in here in the first place."

He tries not to fidget under Desmond's scrutiny as the man watches him, obviously suspicious of his strange behavior. Finally, Desmond sighs and looks back down at the book in his hands, closed now and face up. It's some nonfiction text on memory loss and amnesia, and by the state of its cover, Desmond has spent countless hours scouring through its pages, struggling to find answers.

"Just tell me why you're here."

"I – "

"And don't say it's just to check in on me, alright? You've never bothered to before, so why now?" He rubs the spine of his book, agitated. "I know you talked to Altair."

Alex doesn't say anything at first, considering his options. He does want to discuss what Altair brought to his attention with Desmond and perhaps get some things straightened out. But at the same time he really doesn't want to make this visit business like he'd meant it to be. He wants to tell Desmond he's here to talk, that's it, and he wants it to be true.

"I did talk to him," he concedes, watching the flash of hurt from his brother's betrayal play on Desmond's face.

"He told you about the meds."

"Yes."

Desmond tosses the book onto his bed and rubs his face tiredly. "That's why you're here."

"Partly," he says, and without really thinking about it, he reaches out to give the back of Desmond's neck a reassuring squeeze. The action shocks Alex straight through, freezing him in place as if he's been hit with a bolt of electricity. He thinks of Malik and recalls him doing this exact motion to Altair; the intimacy in the gesture, the familiarity there.

He starts to take his hand back, fearing he's overstepped his bounds, when Desmond…melts, for lack of a better word. He sags into Alex's touch with a heavy sigh and lets his hands dangle between his knees, exposing the serene look on his face – the almost grateful thanks there. Probably no one has touched him in over a year like this for fear of the killer within, Alex thinks. Other than his brothers, everyone else has more than likely avoided him like the plague.

Alex keeps his hand there and begins rubbing the vulnerable skin with his palm, trying to convince himself he won't ever do it again. A lie, of course, but if he lets himself enjoy this too much it can lead to more trouble than either of them are currently prepared for.

"I did want to see how you were doing. You were more upset than I've seen you in a while last week and I wanted to make sure you were okay for myself," he continues. "But I also wanted to know about the medication you told Altair about."

Desmond nods, causing the small hairs at the nape of his neck to tickle Alex's hand. "Okay."

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay. I'm trying :'c


	4. All That Remains

Song of the Turtle Dove

**All That Remains**

_-i-_

The neighborhood is as uninviting and hostile as it has always been. The buildings are little more than carcasses; brick, buff brick and cracked limestone smothered by vivid, intimidating graffiti on every available space. Taller, uglier structures with curtain glass windows stained by years of neglect, some shattered or spider webbed with a million facets, reach for the sky the further toward the heart of the city you walk.

Vegetation is sparse. Browned weeds reach through the cracks in the sidewalk and curtains of vines crawl stubbornly up the sides of a lot of the buildings. There are no trees. Thick clouds of smog roll above and submerge the decrepit place in a uniform grey, sucking the place of color and warping it into something like a ghost town.

In short, it is the most depressing, gloomiest of places to ever have the displeasure of existing on this earth. People do not come here to visit the historical monuments or gush over the myriad of murals rebelliously painted on the sides of buildings or even to haggle with the street vendors for their overpriced wares.

People come here to die. They come here to waste away. It is one step above total destitution, one breath away from being fired from a sorry job and a blink from living in a cardboard box under an overpass, seizing through a final hit from some nameless drug after being promised a high worthy of heaven itself. No one to hear you cry. No one to bury your body. No one to even care.

It's Hell, and Altair walks through it with the cold indifference born from having to live in its hopeless underbelly for far too long.

He turns at the corner and comes upon the loft. It's a cramped, two-story building they rent that sits next to an old abandoned car garage. Squatters have made the condemned establishment their safe haven and drug dealers claimed it as a natural hotspot. He ignores the beggar who thrusts out their hand for spare change and unlocks the gate.

Malik isn't home yet, of which he finds himself surprisingly grateful for. He's still too raw, too wound up, to have to explain things for him. He needs…time. Something. A gun and a bullet, maybe. The thought makes him roll his eyes and snort in self-deprecation. So stupid.

When he makes it inside he throws the three locks on the door and shuts himself in, waits a few seconds, and then starts punching the cement wall next to it until he can't feel his hand, let alone think clearly past the haze of white-hot pain shooting up his arm.

The job was supposed to last at least a year, two if he was lucky. The pay had been decent enough, it kept their heads above water and even the benefits weren't much to complain about. If nothing else, it had been _steady_, and God did they need that right now. _Malik _needed that, and if they were going to put Desmond through yet another trial they'd need the money to pay for that damn leech of a family lawyer so he would finally get Desmond out of that crazy house.

But now Altair has gone and fucked it all up – again. This is, what, the fourth job he'd blown through since Dad died? Pathetic.

"Damn it," he mutters, pulling his hand back and inspecting the knuckles. They're bruised and split open, oozing blood slowly down through the lines of his palm. The concrete wall bears a noticeable stain and with a grimace, he quickly retrieves a scrub pad and spray bottle of bleach to clean it off. No reason to piss Malik off even more than he's already managed.

It takes almost an hour to get the spot cleaned, though Altair can still see the faded pink spatter if he squints and looks at it from the corner of his eye. It's so faint though that he's comfortable in the knowledge Malik won't notice it.

He puts the bleach back under the sink and stands leaning over its basin, fingers curled against the edge so hard his knuckles whiten. The shame and humiliation beat against his skull like some stupid fly throwing itself senselessly against the window over and over again. The anger is diminished at least, but in its place is something much more terrible. It's black and deep and has the phantom taste of rubbing alcohol spreading against the back of his tongue – and it makes Altair sick.

_-i-_

Malik finds him in the bathroom half an hour later, gagging on his own spit with a bloody paper towel wrapped around his fist.

"You got blood on my wall," Is the first thing he says to Altair, and then, "What color are you?"

"Red," he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut on another round of dry heaving. Usually Altair detests their unconventional color code simply because it's just another reminder that he's still nothing but a wretched, pitiful addict. But right then he's so very grateful for it, because all he has to do is say that one word and Malik is beside him in a second, cold cloth pressing against the back of his neck and strong hands holding him together all over again.

It's been six months since he's even looked at a bottle, but sometimes it feels like only days. Hours, even. It's like nothing has changed and that damned _need_ is burning just as surely as a shot of whiskey ever did. He gags again as his body convulses at the very memory, wanting and yet rejecting, begging for the dumbed bliss of alcohol but threatening to bring unimaginable suffering if he so much as considers it.

"C'mon," Malik says, voice low and soothing past the headache blasting through Altair's skull. "Get up, you need to lie down on the couch. I'll call Achilles."

Altair lets himself be led from the bathroom and put on the sofa. Distantly, he can hear Malik pacing in the kitchen while he talks on the phone, explaining how he'd come in and found Altair in the bathroom. No, there weren't any bottles around. He didn't look like he'd been drinking. No, he couldn't smell any alcohol on his breath.

Footsteps, and then Malik is standing next to the couch and reaching down to peel back Altair's eyelids. He groans and jerks his head back, hating how the room spins.

"Clear eyes. He's clean." He sits down in front of Altair's stomach and shakes his shoulder. "Here, talk to him, you need him."

Altair glares at the wall as he accepts the phone and presses it to his ear. He doesn't say anything, but Achilles knows he's listening anyway.

"I'm only going to say this once, and then I will never mention it again." Altair shuts his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose. He can easily picture Achilles sitting by the window of his duplex in that old battered wingback chair he refuses to get rid of despite the stuffing coming out of the seams. His son is staring out of the fogged up picture frame on the side table like always, a painful memory Altair never asks about during their weekly meetings, and all the lights are off so that the only source of light comes from the sun peeking through the dusty blinds. If he concentrates hard enough, he can even smell the cloying scent of cigarette smoke and lavender that is entirely Achilles; safe and familiar.

"…I've never met someone who has as much willpower as you. I know you want to stay sober, I know you want to do well and fix all your wrongs. Six months ago you came to me asking for help because you fucked up real bad, didn't you?" He doesn't wait for Altair to answer, not that he would have. "You said you didn't want to go back to that. Remember? You are not going to mess up all of this hard work, boy. You're not."

The tremors are already beginning to subside and the cold sweat has dried on his skin. On his shoulder, Malik's hand is a steady weight and he finds himself wishing to simply curl up around the other man and go to sleep.

"Whatever happened today isn't reason enough to go ruining your life."

He sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he can see the blood stain on the wall and it's so obvious to him now he can't believe he ever convinced himself Malik wouldn't see it. "It's hard," he mutters eventually, ashamed.

He hears Achilles agree and listens as his sponsor talks to him in that well-spoken burr, easing away the haze of addiction like a balm. These situations, the moments where Altair becomes so weak that he can't stand it anymore and nearly tips into that dark place that festers inside, are rare and stuffed far away in his memory banks. He's only approached this dreaded precipice once before – the day he walked into his first AA meeting, alone, and confessed to a room full of strangers that he wanted to die.

"Is Malik still with you?"

Altair raises his eyes and meets Malik's steady gaze, almond eyes dark with unspoken worry and a strong jaw clenched against undoubtedly sharp words. "Yes," he says, curling his free hand into a loose fist next to Malik's knee.

"Look at him. Look long and hard, Altair, and think about your decisions. If you give in, you're going to lose him."

His fist tightens and Malik grabs it, smoothing his fingers back out and rubbing the reddened palm and gently, so gently, prodding at the split knuckles. He nearly chokes and makes himself look away, focusing on their hands instead. Achilles sighs in his ear and he can almost hear the smile in the man's voice now.

"You're going to be fine, boy."

They talk for a little while longer and Altair listens, slowly collecting himself second by second and packing the broken pieces back in, a little less shattered than before. Eventually, he feels well enough to sit up beside Malik and mutter a few wordy sentences, answer some questions and even ask some of his own. By the time they hang up the sun has gone down and the busted street lamp outside is buzzing with its feeble light, forever threatening to cut out but somehow always managing to keep right on stubbornly shining.

"Let me see your hand," Malik demands, and before Altair can say anything his hand is being pinned to the coffee table while a rag soaked in peroxide is slapped over the flayed skin. He cries out in pain and tries to snatch it back, but Malik refuses to let it go and the struggling turns into a tug of war with the two of them rolling from the couch onto the carpet.

Altair grunts when a wayward elbow digs into his stomach. "_Malik._"

"If you would hold still it could be cleaned and properly bandaged, you insufferable idiot."

"You didn't have to attack me," he growls back, moving until the both of them can sit with their backs against the couch, his hand in Malik's lap. "A simple 'please' would've done it."

Malik flashes him a sardonic little smirk as he cleans the irritated skin, picking out bits of paper towel that has clotted with the dried blood and become stuck. "I don't have the patience to be polite with you. Now stop your whining, it's been a long day and the last thing I need is for you to be like my students and moan and complain about every little thing that's wrong."

He snorts but otherwise goes silent, letting the other man fix him up with sure hands and a tiny frown. In the quiet he can't help but think again of having to let Malik now that he's been fired. He has no backup plan, doesn't even have a clue to where he can turn from here. The bills are already behind for the month and he knows for a fact that the power is going to be cut off if they don't pay it by the weekend. He also knows without even having to look that is wallet is nothing but a gaping hole, and has been for a while now.

Malik carefully places a large square band aid over his knuckles and smoothes the wrinkles out until he deems it satisfactory. Altair sighs and rubs his forehead with it, sliding it down until the palm covers his eyes like a shield.

"We need to talk," he says, voice weary and heavy with regret.

He hears Malik make noise of agreement and feels him stretch his legs out before them. "Of course. I'd hate to not be given an explanation for any of this. Naturally I'd just beat it out of you anyway, but I appreciate you taking the initiative and telling me yourself."

"I was fired." Might as well just come right out with it, no sense in beating around the bush. "Some young thing with a degree beat me out. Fucker didn't even know how to crunch the numbers right, just flashed around his fancy papers and got a callback on the spot. They gave me an hour to clear out or they'd call security." He sighs again and lets his head drop back against the seat of the couch. He can't even look Malik in the eye.

Neither says anything for a long time and the buzzing lamp outside seems even louder and more annoying in the resulting silence. The heater kicks on with a rattling clank and steady hum. The sounds of the city filter in through the walls from outside in a familiar din of traffic and yelling. He imagines he could fall asleep if the situation was different, lulled into unconsciousness by the drone of New York in his ears. Finally, Malik breaks it by patting him on the leg and standing to brush imaginary dust off the seat of his pants. "Well, I'm going to fix some dinner. Are you hungry?"

Altair gapes after him, stunned and glued to the floor, the sounds from outside completely forgotten. Malik ignores him and walks to the kitchen to root around in the cabinets for something quick and edible. He's pulling down a box of hamburger helper – and if it were any other time Altair would start gagging, they've had _enough _of that shit – when Altair finally gets the sense to stop staring like an idiot and stand up.

"Did you hear what I just said?" he asks as he follows him into the cramped little kitchen. Malik digs out a battered old pot that is part of a set they found at an estate sale last Christmas. It's red and speckled with flecks of white, like someone swung a paintbrush at it and let the drops dry, and it's probably the nicest thing they own. "Malik, I said I was fired."

"I heard you," He's reading the instructions on the back of the box, as if he hasn't already memorized them. "Chili macaroni or stroganoff? Either one will take about half an hour."

"Malik – "

"Macaroni, then. The stroganoff smells like dead cat, anyway." And then, muttering, he adds almost to himself, "Don't know why we even buy it in the first place."

Altair grabs his arm in a tight hold. "Malik!"

"What, Altair?" Malik yells, whipping around hard enough to throw off his hold and send him back a step, startled. And then he sees it – the tension in Malik's shoulders, the tightness around his thinned lips and the caged look in his eyes, the same look Altair himself is undoubtedly showing. He doesn't say anything at first, and Malik keeps looking at him with that familiar glare through the panic in his eyes, and it's _almost _normal. Almost. Except that it's not at all. This time, Malik is the one to sigh and he leans heavily back against the counter, flicking the knob on the stove to make it click as it starts to heat up.

"I heard you," he says again, crossing his arms over his chest. "What do you expect me to say? That I'm disappointed in you? That I'm angry and I'm leaving you?"

Altair opens his mouth to say no, he doesn't expect that at all, but ends up shutting it again with an audible clack because, yes, that's exactly what he had expected. In return he gets this look of complete irritation and dismay, as if Malik can't decide whether he should soothe Altair like a lost little puppy, or kick him in the shin for being an even bigger idiot than before.

"Altair," he shakes his head and steps close enough to reach up and push long fingers through his hair, clenching them into a loose fist at the back of his skull. "You're being as dramatic as a woman who believes her husband is having an affair. If you think so little of me maybe I _should _leave." He settles his hands firmly on Malik's hips to keep him there just in case he does tries to escape, and causes the other man to wrinkle his nose in something that's not quite a smile, and chuckle.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says at length, leaning in against Altair's chest without really moving at all. "You were fired, that doesn't mean everything else has to end as well. We've gone through this before and we did alright." He shrugs a shoulder and moves so both of his hands are in Altair's hair and rubbing soothing circles against his scalp. "I'll see about cutting some of the classes short at the university and getting a second job. Maybe down at the depot until you get back on your feet."

"No, I – "

"Hush," Malik lifts that little bit on his toes and covers Altair's mouth with his own, coaxing him into a gentle, loving kiss that aches right down to the soul. "I know you're scared. I am, too. But we'll figure this out, Altair." He kisses him again, pulling him down this time instead of lifting to meet him, and steals the breath from his very lungs. It feels like coming home.

_-i-_

They clean up the flat properly ("I can't believe you got blood on the wall, you idiot") and have a questionable dinner in the living on the couch with late night game shows on mute playing on the tv. At one point Altair tries to broach the subject of finances and just how they can budget things, but is quickly shot down when Malik gives him a look that clearly states he is in no mood to discuss money. The same happens when he comments on spending the day tomorrow looking for work, so in order to keep from getting a verbal lashing from hell he drops the topic altogether and settles into their patchwork couch, one arm comfortably slung over the back, feet on the table and Malik a long line of warmth pressed in against his side.

He dozes off sometime between Wheel of Fortune and Family Feud with his head thrown back against the cushions. He wakes maybe an hour later with a mouth on his neck and a hand down his pants.

"Uh," he grunts, blinking up at the ceiling and shuddering as Malik squeezes his hardening dick with a warm palm. "What…?"

He hears Malik chuckle right before teeth nip _there_, that sensitive spot just behind his ear, the place that drives him completely wild with the barest of touch. A hot tongue presses against the bite and lips close over it in a sweet, teasing kiss.

"Let's go to bed," Malik whispers, and the cool breath on his wet skin sends a shiver of want down Altair's spine. The hand in his pants withdraws with a dance of massaging fingers to wrap around his wrist instead and pull him up from the couch. He stumbles, still groggy from sleep, and blindly follows Malik up the spiral wrought-iron staircase to the platform above where the bed is.

He doesn't say anything. A part of him thinks he should pull away and stop this before it even starts because he knows what Malik is trying to do. It's a reason to forget, an excuse to not think about how they could be homeless tomorrow and just another lost cause wasting away with the rest of the city. Malik is as terrified as he is. He worries about the money and about finding work and about all the other million and one things that have gone so wrong lately just like Altair does. And using sex as an excuse to forget about it will only make things worse.

"Wait," He stops on the top step and searches Malik's face.

Malik's hand tightens around his wrist. "Stop," he says. "I can hear you thinking from here and you're being ridiculous."

"But – "

He sighs and tugs Altair with him as he takes a few steps back and sits on the edge of the bed. Altair kneels between his knees with his head bowed, staring down at the bruised fist in his lap. "You're hopeless. After all these years you would think I would be used to way you and your family seem so intent on taking the blame for every little thing that happens."

Altair snorts and flexes his fingers, his arousal slowly ebbing away. "This was my fault, Malik. There's no getting around that. I lost my job."

"And you think you are the only one capable of supporting us?" he demands, and Altair knows without looking he has this look on his face that just _dares _Altair to question his abilities. Not since Kadar. Not since Malik would've given everything for nothing. Questioning that level of strength is impossible and unthinkable.

When Altair doesn't respond, Malik is lifting his face so he can look him in the eye. "You listen to me, Altair," he growls, and he feels his body respond immediately to the sound of Malik's voice dipping down into a place that makes those dark eyes glint with a hidden fire. Heat licks low in Altair's belly and has him shifting higher on his knees, gripping Malik's thighs tightly in his hands. "You will _not _let this drag you away from me. I want you, I'll always want you. So end your pity party and take me to bed before I tie you up and take care of it myself."

And, really, he can't find a reason to argue that, so he nods once and shoves Malik down onto his back with a rough push. It goes from indulging kisses and appreciative touching to a battle of teeth and tongue within seconds, hands fighting to get rid of every piece of clothing between them and then long slides of powerful bodies pushing against each other in a familiar dance that never, ever loses its consuming sense of breathless abandon.

It starts out fast and hard like it usually does between them. Almost angry, because Altair likes playing with tigers and Malik is as vicious and merciless between the sheets as he is out. But then something changes, a sigh of breath being too soft or a shared look giving too much and not enough away. They roll and dive, rock and pitch themselves in waves of pleasure that break and crash against their sweaty skin. Groans turn to delicious gasps. Hands clutch and hold together, shaking, trembling. And when it's over, when the only sounds are their labored breaths and the pounding of their hearts, they stay pressed so closely together it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

_-i-_

It's a few days later and Altair wishes he had stayed home if it meant he wouldn't have to see Desmond looking at him with those lost puppy-dog eyes he and Ezio seem to have perfected so well over the years, and that somehow managed to skip Altair's genetic makeup altogether. He rubs a hand over his forehead, scrubs through his short hair and pulls his hood down over his face.

"What are you going to do?"

"Not sure yet."

"But you've got a plan, right? You've been putting in applications everywhere haven't you?"

"Of course I have," he snaps, glaring from the shadow of his hood. "I didn't tell you this so you could stress yourself into the panic room, Desmond. I just…" He trails off with a heavy sigh, suddenly wishing he could simply disappear into the floor. His little brother is depending on him, locked up in some asylum with barely a hope of ever getting out. Desmond's been harboring this stubborn little spark, this wonderful desire of freedom, for so many months now. Altair _promised _him that he would get him out. Someday, somehow, he'd bring Desmond home and they would be a family again, they'd fix everything. They'd start over from the very beginning.

But as he sits there and his baby brother searches his face for answers, he feels his chest constrict with the realization that maybe he's been lying to Desmond and himself all along.

"Me and Malik are going through a rough time right now with money and – working for an appeal, it's really expensive. I've got some cash left in savings, a bit left over from the inheritance, but it's not enough and…Desmond, I'm going to do everything I can. I'll do whatever it takes, and – " He stops again and drops his head into his hands. He feels Desmond's arm around his shoulders, and it's so warm against the cool fall weather blowing around them where they're out in the garden.

"Altair?"

It hurts that Desmond sounds so young, like he's a teenager again and Dad's grave is still fresh and all Altair wants is for Mom to come take care of them again. "Mm?"

"…It's okay."

"No," he breathes, sitting up and wrapping an arm around Desmond, holding him so tightly his bones start to shake beneath the skin. "No, it's not okay, but it will be. I promise you."

* * *

**A/N: **This long of a wait won't happen again. Honest. Sorry it took so long.


End file.
